


Edge Play

by orphan_account



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Bad BDSM Practice, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dark, Degradation, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mirror Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21979273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: STRICTLY OVER 18 ONLY. DO NOT READ OR ENGAGE WITH THIS FIC IF YOU ARE UNDER 18.Where Chase and House both need an escape, Chase takes the idea of a "scene" too literally and neither of them want to admit that they're taking things too far.Additional stuff in notes.
Relationships: Robert Chase/Greg House
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	Edge Play

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to play with a slightly darker twist to the House/Chase pairing for a while now and this is what came out. It's a complete experiment and very different from my usual style in every sense. I'll be back to my usual fluffy nonsense soon.
> 
> This is absolutely NOT a reflection of safe or healthy BDSM practice. Please bear that in mind.

_Scene_. It sounds so reductive.

Everything is a scene. Showing up to work on time. Trying to upstage his colleagues during differentials. The patients, their families; rehearsed reassurances, explanations, words of comfort. And Chase is tired.

The lights make him sweat, the orchestra is too loud, the players are unpredictable. He can drink a few beers and not pay attention for a while. He can close his eyes, cover his ears, but at some point his call will sound in the wings and he'll have to play his role. Doctor. Boyfriend. Adult. Lab coat, dress shirt, something sensible. They bleed into each other. Different versions of him.

Actors draw from their lives. His memories niggle. They cause him to fluff his lines at the most inopportune moments. Maybe with a clinic patient who reminds him of his father. Or the smell of alcohol on House's breath. All the little moments that break his focus. Make him wonder why he can't throw on his costume, strut around and get along just like everyone else. Why nothing feels like enough. Why even House is not enough to turn the volume down on everything.

Loving House – and knowing House, in his own roundabout, distant way, loves him back – should be enough.

House may not be the type to listen to your problems, but he will risk his life for you. He probably won't remember your birthday, but he might gift you with something of astounding sentimental relevance when he feels like it. He might not want to cuddle you to sleep, but he can read you like a Greek tragedy. He'll know what you need, and when he loves you, he might just give it to you.

It might not be Shakespeare, or a technicolour musical with universal standards. But if Chase needs him to take it all away, strip off his makeup and give him just one night off, House obliges. Because if anyone understands the need to escape, it's House.

When they devise their own piece, it's not to entertain, to distract. It's to purge.

The basic script remains the same every time, although House will ad-lib new lines and Chase will try on different facial expressions. Their chemistry will burn electric, House will watch for Chase's cues and Chase will let House block the action and steer the narrative. He's always taken direction exceptionally well.

When they finish, there'll be no applause. They won't critique or congratulate themselves. They'll pretend the whole premise was a dud, never to be revisited. Until Chase starts to itch for his favourite role again. Until House misses the rush of playing the villain.

The evening's performance is in preparation. The light is off, the bedside lamp casting a white hot oval across the wall. The bed is made, the mirror pointed towards them. Stage set.

Shadows lick at House's face. Chase doesn't miss the slight moistness of his palm as his hand covers his, thumb trailing absently over his wrist. “You're absolutely sure you want this tonight?” he asks.

Chase shifts forward on the bed to brush his lips against House's cheek. Stubble grazes, the taste of sweat. “Absolutely,” he replies.

The look in House's eyes at his statement would be wasted on the stage. They're heavy. Specks of doubt. Premature regret. Wrapped in hunger, lust. You can't convey that with a flamboyant gesture.

A stab, something Chase chooses not to see, and House seems to blink for a little too long. “Okay. Tell me your safeword.”

“Sarcoidosis,” says Chase faithfully, because he's got that line spot on.

House's eyes stray downwards, and when he looks up again he could freeze nitrogen beneath his gaze. He tears his hand off of Chase's as if he were diseased. “Stand up. Take off your clothes.”

The opening scene has changed little since the beginning. Chase does as instructed, trapped between House and the full length mirror. Tonight's prop. Sometimes House will add handcuffs, gags, thick toys that stretch him wider than House ever could. But he hasn't laid anything out.

Chase takes his time. Tries to slow his accelerating breaths as he fumbles his shirt buttons open, exposing his chest, his torso; the whisper of muscle, nipples hardening as they come into contact with the air. The tip of House's tongue darts out, touching his top lip. Aroused. Wanting.

He lets his shirt fall to the floor, hyper aware of House's eyes on him; watching him expose every inch of the flesh he's grown so familiar with. He knows House adores his body. That he goes crazy for the defined muscles in his arms and back; the tufts of fine hair on his abdomen, the pathway down to his groin. Loves to knead his ass while he fucks him, to shove his face into the pillow as as he moves deeper and faster until Chase wails and begs to cum...

It's harder to show thoughts and memories live. No benefit of editing, special effects.

Chase removes his pants, a little whimper escaping him at the discomfort growing between his legs. When he steps out of them and slips his thumbs between the waistband of his briefs, he closes his eyes; draws a breath before slipping them down in one forceful movement.

No genre, no style, even exists for what they're doing.

He crosses his arms at his waist. He can never help but feel self-conscious when House regards him like this as he stands before him. Raking his gaze over every inch of his naked body. Admiring him. Objectifying him.

His eyes linger on Chase's visible arousal, as he nods. “Yeah. Very nice.” He waves a finger at him. “Turn around. Face away from me.”

The stage directions would instruct Chase to hesitate, knowing the mirror is waiting for him on the other side. But Chase knows his character better. He turns quickly, wanting to show his willingness to obey. Wanting to watch House stand up behind him, close the small gap between them, still fully clothed as their reflections' eyes meet in the glass.

Chase is beginning to quiver. He watches two firm hands come down on his waist, jerk him back, so he can feel House's groin pressed against his bare ass. Feel his clothed body pressed up against his naked one. Delirious with vulnerability. The mirror omits nothing. Not the shame sewn into Chase's features, not the predatory smirk on House's lips. It imitates Chase's mouth falling slightly open in surprise as House nips at his earlobe and commands, “hands on your head.”

Chase obeys, his hair soft beneath his fingers. It seems so quiet. The thunder of life can't be heard from House's bedroom. There's no traffic, no snippets of conversation, background artists slipping by an open window. Just House's measured breathing, held steady despite his arousal. The bodily control of a ballerina.

It's just the two of them, and a live audience wouldn't change a thing.

Access is granted easily to his body without his arms in the way. Guitar calloused fingertips skim Chase's hips; they skate upwards, caressing exposed flanks, evoking a shiver in their wake. House drinks him in with his hands, roaming his chest, seeking nipples that have risen to solid nubs beneath his touch. He tweaks, tugs. Chase shudders, but doesn't allow himself to moan in pain. It's not about how he feels. House isn't touching him to arouse him. He's taking what's his.

“Such a pretty little thing,” House murmurs. “Tight body... nice ass...”

What would it be like to close his eyes if there were a sea of people watching? Shut them out, focus on nothing but House's hand sliding up to touch his face, those rough fingers skimming his lips? Knowing his exposure in a full auditorium of strange eyes?

“A mouth that was made to suck cock,” House continues, pulling on Chase's lower lip. Chase parts them obediently, opening his mouth to let House's finger brush his tongue. “Eager, aren't we?”

A moan at the sensation, not audible enough for those at the back.

House's chuckle drowns him out anyway. His voice is husky, low, in his ear: “you're fucking _pathetic_.”

At this point, an observer may deduce that the Chase character is complex. Why does he sigh with desire at that statement, as if House had just whispered a honey sweet nothing? When House tears his finger out of his mouth, why does he whimper at the loss of it?

“Open your eyes, Robert.” House is sucking on the tender skin between his neck and shoulder, and the sensation has his body slackening against him. “Look in the mirror.”

His breath shudders in his throat as he complies, taking in the sight of House mauling him with his hands, his mouth; watching his body respond to his touch, his slightly parted lips moaning and whimpering for him, his hips jerking of their own accord, as if he can gain some touch to his glistening cock from pure air. Perhaps he's sympathetic; perhaps he's the hero. Perhaps theatre undergrads would choose him for character analysis. Or would House be more interesting?

House rests his chin on Chase's shoulder. "Tell me what you see."

His fingers are at the back of his head, resting, threatening to twist in his hair until Chase whimpers in pain. But he'll take it. He always takes it for House.

“I see...” He stops, licks his lips. “I see a desperate... little slut.” He gasps the last two words.

“Yes. That's what I see, too.” House's expression is unreadable, but Chase can't help feeling smug at the thickness of his voice, the desire leaking through the cracks of his indifference. “What do you think he wants?”

Chase swallows. “I – he... wants to be... fucked.” There's a pink tinge to his reflection's pale cheeks as he adds, in a whisper, “he wants to be used.”

House nods. “He always does. I think that's all he's good for, isn't it? Taking cock.”

As House slams his groin up against Chase's ass, he gasps, pushing back for more. Silently pleading. “Yes,” he whispers. He's keen as ever to participate in his own undoing. “It's all he's good for.”

House seems to purr, a low, appreciative sound. It's a scrap, a shred, but it's the closest he'll get to praise when they play like this. The feel of his erection bulging through his pants, against his ass, the only way House will tell him he's doing well.

The hand at the base of his skull tightens, holding his neck; forcing him to keep watching himself. “Say it.”

Chase is proud of the way his lips quiver. He's good at portraying fear. Holding his body rigid, ensuring his voice is little more than a husk as he responds, “Please. Please use me.”

As he speaks, he holds his own gaze, because he doesn't want to meet House's.

House lingers for a second before releasing Chase's hips, placing commanding hands on his biceps until he lowers his arms. Delivers a slap to his behind as an afterthought. “Bend over.”

Chase hisses at the sting; dares to watch again as House turns around, groping for the bottle of lube on the bed. He improvises a whimper as he obeys the command, awkwardly parting his legs where he stands. He embodies debauchery, submission. A role he plays so well he'll be typecast for years to come.

Reduced to a pretty plaything. A vessel of pleasure. Small, debased. No thoughts, no responsibilities.

The peace in being nothing.

“You look fucking ridiculous.” As House speaks, he presses a wet fingertip to Chase's entrance. Chase bites his lip in anticipation, a reaction he's perfected to a signature piece. He knows House is watching his face, waiting to see it; waiting for his mouth to fall slack, for his hands to curl against his thighs as his finger penetrates him. “This must be so humiliating for you. But you'll do it, won't you?”

House is slow, gentle, always gentle, but Chase is tense. He gasps, trying to adjust to the intrusion. He sucks in a breath through gritted teeth as he nods, closing his eyes.

House's finger curls within him, quickly finding his prostate. At the flush of pleasure, he enunciates his moan. Everything's exaggerated for performance.

House just scowls. “Why do you keep coming back, Robert?”

He knows his line here. “Because...” He pauses to add weight to his delivery. Lowers his voice. “Because I like it.”

“No, you don't.” House's eyes smoulder in the mirror. Lust, contempt. Chase is crumbling, slipping away. “You just like being made to feel as though you're worth something.”

A sigh escapes him, longing, bitter on his tongue. He's almost close enough to the mirror for his breath to fog the glass. Almost. He's relaxing now, pushing back against House for more.

House obliges, easing another finger into him. “Such a tight little hole,” he continues, gripping his hip with his spare hand. “It's all you've got to offer, isn't it? Kinda sad that you'll do it for free.”

Chase whines, feeling his cock bobbing against his stomach. It aches for touch, the head moist. Proof of his arousal at being spoken to like this. He's harder still at the knowledge he's going to be denied release for as long as House sees fit.

He wants to bite down on his fist, cover his mouth; just something to stop the needy cries spilling from his lips as House works him open. House's gaze is, he notices, focused on the back of his head, not their reflection. _Look_, he wants to say._ You're missing it._

As his fingers start to thrust faster still into his now pliant hole, the pleasure building inside him is maddening. It's stoked further by House's fingernails digging into his hip, making him squirm where he stands. Whimper at the pain.

House just smiles. “Are you ready to take my cock now?”

“God,” Chase moans softly. “Please, I'm ready, please...”

He trails off as House's fingers halt inside him. Pause for effect, he thinks. Until he catches House's brow furrow. Only for a fraction of a split second, if it's even that long. Breaking character.

Thinking. He must be thinking.

Chase watches his eyelids flutter at the final spark as House's fingers slip out of him. He waits for instructions, his cue to get on his hands and knees, or his back.

House's lip curls ever so slightly upwards. “Beg for it.”

Well. That's not usually in the script.

Chase regards his foggy eyes, his spread legs, his open mouth, faithfully reflected, and for the first time he has to look away.

“Please.” His voice is a husk, a broken whisper. He licks his lips. “Please... S-Sir... let me take your cock. Make me useful. I'm... begging you.”

Chase's dick twitches, his hands ball into fists against his thighs, and the hand on his hip gives a gentle squeeze that startles him. He's sure House meant to squeeze harder. Meant to cause him pain. He wonders if he imagines the silence, the slight tremble in House's hand as he reaches for his own belt buckle, or if the suspense is causing him to see subtext that doesn't really exist.

Chase reminds himself of the drive of his character: that his aesthetic value is all that matters. His body, his pleasing holes, he's a thing, a prop for House's pleasure. Otherwise useless to him.

House eases backwards and sits down on the bed; grabs the lube again, this time applying a generous amount to his own cock, flushed, a glisten at the head. 

It's only a fucking show. Pure escapism. Human, and normal. He needs this. House needs this.

House grabs his wrist and gracelessly jerks him upright, guiding him backwards towards the edge of the bed. “Come sit on my lap. You're gonna fuck yourself for me, pretty boy.”

Chase draws a breath. House's cock is exposed, hard in his hand, slick with lube and ready for him. He turns and goes to obey, raising a leg onto the bed to straddle him. He's clumsy, and it's difficult, and he's conscious of not jostling House's bad leg. He's so wrapped up in it that he doesn't notice House trying to get his attention until a stinging slap to his cheek jolts him back to focus.

“Concentrate, you dumb slut.” House's brows are drawn into a scowl, his voice chiding. It pierces Chase's fog like dry ice through a spotlight. “Not facing me. Face the other way.”

Chase bites his lip and nods before turning around, bracing himself against House's knee as he parts his legs around his thighs. He somehow feels the need to remind himself that House is wearing the mask of his character; that House can be a rotten ass, but he would never treat him like this for real. He just wouldn't.

In their reflection, he watches House brush his palm against his own cheek, just for a moment, before slamming his hand back down on the bed. It's like he's fighting the urge to cover his face.

As Chase steadies himself, bracing his hands against House's knees, he feels the slick head of his cock brush his entrance and bites his lip in anticipation. He pushes his hips back. He takes in his reflection, his hair unkempt, his eyes half lidded, his lips wet and parted, and he's somehow not entirely convinced of who he's supposed to be.

He pushes through. He watches himself as he sinks down on House's cock, filling himself up as House's hands take his hips to guide him. He can only lower his head in shame as he slides up and then back down and fuck, it's so good, and the muscles in his calves ripple with the exertion of holding himself like this, and there's no dignity.

No dignity in seeing himself nude and spread wide open over House's lap, his exposed cock like steel, brushing his stomach, tangling the fine hairs there in a coat of pre-cum.

No dignity in House closing his eyes and growling against his slick neck as his reflection grabs Chase's hips and drives him down onto him again, pointed in his lack of care and attention, the very gesture seeming to cement his position as fucktoy.

There's no dignity, and he doesn't want it.

When this is done, they'll have a beer on the couch. Then they'll talk and laugh and kiss until their clothes come off again, and House will make love to him there and then before they pass out in each other's arms. It's nothing that hasn't happened a hundred times before, even if it hasn't happened like that in a while. But Chase knows it will be different tonight. It has to be.

Chase throws his head back when House is fully inside him, giving a throaty moan. He takes a moment to adjust, eyes fixed on a ceiling free of scaffolds and bright lights. Scrubbed clean of paintings of the heavens. Just House's bedroom with its boring white ceiling. They're just in House's bedroom, and tomorrow they'll have to go to work, and he can't bear the thought of another day.

“I wish everyone at the hospital could see you like this.” House's breathless statement draws his eyes back to the mirror. His lips are moist on Chase's neck, and his wordless snarl of pleasure sends vibrations across his skin. “Do you think they'd have any respect left for you, Dr Chase?”

“N-no.” Chase whimpers at the sight of his hips bobbing up and down, of House's cock moving in and out of him, of House's lip curling back to reveal gritted teeth.

“That's right.” He almost seems to smile before digging his nails into Chase's ass, thrusting up into him with a grunt at the cry of pain he evokes. “Are you ashamed?”

House's gaze still doesn't quite meet their reflection, and his features are rigid, and Chase wants to shoot back,_ are you?_

Instead, he nods his head.

“Good. You should be.”

Chase fights the urge to claw at himself by tightening his grip on House's knee, starting to rock his hips faster. He lets himself release a quiet sob. It's all just fiction.

He can't decide if House misses his cue or follows it as he whispers, “You're nothing to me.”

Chase wrote that line for him. House delivers it with such ease, as though he came up with it himself. Like it's a deeply felt sentiment rolling off of his tongue. But that's how it's supposed to feel. You're not supposed to be _aware_ that you're watching a performance.

It's all just fiction.

As House slides a hand up his flank, he shudders at the touch; whines at the sensation of House pressing his face harder still into his neck, like he's trying to break it. He feels fingers sliding through his hair, twisting around a tuft until there's a flush of pain. Chase whines and blindly reaches upwards, taking hold of House's wrist. Wanting to encourage him to pull, tug, snap his head back and thrust up into him, hard, use him, until he cums... wanting to feel alive...

House shakes him off violently, giving a snort of disgust. “Don't fucking touch me.”

Chase's vision blurs, until he can no longer see his eyes glistening in the mirror. He's corpsing. Losing focus. Sight of who he's supposed to be. And he's supposed to be a good slut for House, to take it. He's certainly not supposed to start crying. Not for real.

Cut.

“Chase?” House's voice softens, edged with a ring of panic. “Oh, God. Are you okay?”

“Y-yes,” he gasps, closing his eyes as House's arms snake around his waist. The kiss to the back of his neck burns. “I mean... please, just...”

He stutters a breath, as House runs a gentle hand down his flank. He's stiff, his attempt at comfort awkward. It's not his strong point. When Chase wipes his streaming eyes and chances looking at their reflection again, he sees House's face taut with confusion, fear. As their eyes meet and he looks away, he picks up something else. Guilt.

Chase drinks it in, swallows it. He rocks his hips, slowly. House's lips part; he moans, then fiercely shakes his head. “Look, we should...” he begins.

“Act like you don't care,” Chase gasps. “Don't stop.”

House is completely still, his expression dazed, as Chase continues moving on top of him. "Greg, please.” Chase closes his eyes. “No mercy. Break me.”

“I don't...” House trails off. Then, “Chase, you're crying. It's weird.”

Chase swallows. “But you're still hard.”

His head spins, and he shouldn't have fucking said that.

He can almost taste the mental gymnastics. House, a man usually so disinterested in ethics, genuinely weighing this up. Chase has got to stop him from spending so much time with Wilson. Maybe after all these years, he's finally starting to rub off on him.

House's arms tighten around him, and Chase still can't open his eyes. He doesn't want to see the look on House's face as he murmurs, “you sure?”, strained, like the words taste bad.

Chase whimpers. "I'm sure. It's okay."

House hesitates, but only for a moment.

Then House's hand is rough against his face, palm flattening across his cheek in a mocking caress. “Stop crying now, come on. You'll ruin your pretty face. You're getting what you want, aren't you?”

It's tearing him up, and the script is burning at their feet. Chase wishes House would permit him to touch himself, even just stroke him, tease him, just a little. “Please,” he cries aimlessly. “Please, just...”

“Shut up.” When House gives a moaning sigh and slams his hips up into him with the force of a wrecking ball, Chase sobs in ecstasy. “Look at yourself. Look at what you've become.”

As Chase regards his reflection, his bloodshot eyes, his quivering shoulders, he watches House's eyes close, his lips tighten inwards. Watches him turn his head away.

For the first time, Chase slows his pace. He's startled as House slaps at his thigh. It's not hard, it doesn't hurt, but he cries out anyway. 

“Enough,” he commands. “Get down on the bed.”

Chase hesitates a moment, confused. When House starts shoving at his hips to move him, with a growl of “now,” he eases himself upright with trembling legs. His hands clench into fists at his sides, and he's never felt more naked in his life. The vulnerability of live performance.

He's beginning to gingerly hoist himself onto the bed when House struggles upright and grabs his arm, throwing him forward. He lands against the mattress on his front, giving a grunt as he's hoisted onto his hands and knees. Facing the wall.

He's got his back to the audience, and he's relieved.

He obediently parts his legs when House nudges at his thighs, pushing his ass up in the air and lowering his head down between his outstretched arms, just the way House likes him. He wets the blanket beneath his face, releasing a muffled cry into it as House holds his head still there and thrusts into him again, entering him fully. Chase groans at his force, going limp beneath him.

“You want me to break you?” He punctuates his words by grabbing a handful of Chase's ass. “You fucking got it.”

Chase whimpers beneath him, trying to keep perfectly still as House works into a rhythm of deep, vicious thrusts. The lighting displays are fading to a glimmer, the curtain preparing to fall. House grunts and curses above him, running greedy hands over his thighs, his flanks, his neck, his hair, taking and touching and grabbing and _taking_. And Chase weeps, even as House finally takes pity on him and engulfs his cock in his hand, stroking and teasing and bringing him closer and closer until he's arching and clawing at the sheets. Until he's pleading for his orgasm in a broken whimper.

A sneer. "You disgust me." Something wet hits the back of his neck. “Cum."

The realisation that House just spat on him is enough of a shock to send him over the edge.

House is seconds behind, halting inside him with a cry that turns Chase cold. It's not his usual pitchy gasp; he doesn't sound like he's helpless to ecstasy, even as Chase feels him spilling into his body. It's something more primal. Something like pain.

Chase allows himself to collapse onto his front as House pulls out, his body trembling like he's had a shot of adrenaline. He keeps his face pressed into the sheets, listening out for those post-coital sounds; House snatching up a tissue from the box beside the bed. The click of a belt buckle, the sound of a zipper as he readjusts his jeans. He waits for the final line of the evening.

A silence rolls through the bedroom, and he can sense House standing still a moment, unmoving. Then, “Put your clothes on and get out.”

Chase presses his palms flat against the bed, easing himself up. His legs are liquid, his head like a balloon. He smooths strands of wayward hair out of his face and reaches for his clothes, in a heap on the floor in front of the mirror. The lick of nausea at the sight of it is so intense that he almost doubles over. He turns his back to it, vowing to never look at his own reflection again.

Chase is back to regular life, back to its quirks and expectations and its pain, and in seeking an escape he's only torn another hole in himself.

_Don't fucking touch me._

He chances stealing a glance at House as he slips on his shirt. He's sitting on the bed, upright against the pillows, reaching for a medical journal on the bedside table. As if feeling his gaze, he asks, “are you still here?”

His delivery is off, flat. Literally reading from a script, and with no skill.

Chase doesn't button his shirt all the way before slipping out of the bedroom. As usual, he gets as far as the lounge; eyes the blanket on the couch, left out for him in preparation for the end of the scene. He's supposed to get under it, then House will come out and stroke his hair and hold him and whisper the kind of sweet words and loving reassurances that sound weird coming out of his mouth. Things that House would never say in any other setting.

All good stories stick with you. Flashes, stabs, a moment that captures you enough to pop up in your memories years later. The superlative performances; you pour yourself into them until there's nothing left. Nothing more to share. Empty.

The cast should be euphoric, oozing adrenaline, boisterous, throwing off costumes with fondness. Ready to head to a bar. Go home. Sign autographs outside the stage door. Whatever.

Chase lays on the couch, kicking the blanket onto the floor. His throat is still tight, his cheeks sticky with dried tears. He is the hysterical Broadway actress of old with a nembutal addiction and three failed marriages, a buggered liver and a reputation for being difficult. He is the playwright with the razor wit and big personality, drinking himself to sleep so he doesn't have to spend another night pinned to the mattress by demons with distorted faces.

What he and House are doing to each other does not translate well to real life.

House emerges after a couple of minutes, limping over to the couch with his hand on his bad thigh. As their eyes lock, he opens his mouth; nothing emerges. Chase shifts back on the couch to make room for him to sit. He seems to linger a moment before easing himself down. When Chase offers his hand, he interweaves their fingers, something like a smile touching his lips. It fades. The lines in his forehead seem more pronounced, like he's fighting with his mind.

“Why is your blanket on the floor?” he asks eventually.

Chase shrugs. House leans down to pick it up, draping it over him awkwardly with one hand. Chase makes no attempt to reposition it around himself. It feels thick and heavy on his body.

He presses a kiss to House's knuckle. “That was,” he begins, searching for the right word. _Hot as fuck? So wrong? Horrifying?_ He settles on, “intense.” He follows it up with a short laugh, then wonders why.

House says nothing. He grips his leg, hoisting himself up to lie on the couch. Chase shifts back, making room. It's a squeeze, but neither of them complain. And as Chase lays his head on House's chest and feels his arms encircle him, neither of them relax entirely into the embrace.

Chase makes a show of grunting contentedly. House shifts a couple of times, jostling him; then his hand slips back down to his bad thigh. He runs his palm across it, and Chase hears the little hiss he tries to conceal.

“Your leg hurting?” he asks, stubble tickling his lips as he presses a kiss to his face.

House shakes his head. “I'm fine.”

Chase knows not to argue with “I'm fine.” So he merely presses his body closer to his, waiting for the post-coital tranquility to hit. Waiting for House to murmur soft praise, reassurances. In reality, that hasn't happened for a very long time.

Now, after these encounters, they usually lay together in silence. Sometimes, House will actually apologise, however quietly, however much he tries to avoid actually saying the words “I'm sorry”. Sometimes, Chase will assert that things just got a bit out of hand, and next time will be better. They just need to communicate, he might say. Knowing that they'll both avoid actually doing that, given what dangerous territory it will inevitably be.

None of that should be necessary.

Then House shifts again before murmuring, “I really didn't like it when you cried.”

Chase bites his lip. Tries to keep his tone airy, playful, as he replies, “you didn't _want_ to like it, you mean.”

“No. I meant what I said.” House stiffens against him, but he makes no move to pull out of the embrace. “Fuck's sake, Chase.”

Something rises within him. Something he can't explain as he responds, more vigorously than he means to, “I didn't want to like it when you spat on me either.” He pasues before adding, "actually, I didn't like it.”

House's eyes fall closed. He leans in, as if he's going to kiss him, but then draws back as if it would be a mistake. He draws a breath before saying, “I'll never do that again.”

He's clinging to him a little, like a needy child, and Chase doesn't understand any of this.

When Chase announces he's going for a shower, House doesn't insist that he's coming too. And when House pops enough Vicodin to tranquilise a small horse before passing out in front of the TV, Chase doesn't prod him awake and persuade him to come to bed.

Just before Chase turns out the lights, he turns the mirror around to face the wall. He goes to bed fully clothed.


End file.
